I Waited
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: Three years is a long time.


This is my first story so constructive criticism is very welcome!

A huge thanks to coffee-not-decaf for beta'ing for me! You're brilliant and I love you.

Rated T 'cause I'm paranoid. Also, swearing.

**Disclaimer:**I don't own these characters or BBC Sherlock. They belong to their rightful owners, blah blah blah, you've heard this all before, I'm sure. Also, my paragraphing got a bit messed up.

* * *

Three years is a long time.

You can do a lot of things in three years. You can get married and have children and get a new job and completely reinvent yourself. You can fall and you can break, you can pick yourself right back up again and keep going where you left off.

And then all of a sudden you're standing right where you stood three years ago and realizing that nothing's really changed and it hasn't been that long, after all.

* * *

It was the third anniversary of his death and like every year on this day John decidedly _didn't_ go to his best friends grave. Because what is a grave, really, other than where a body is buried? It holds nothing of the person there, nothing of what they were, what they _are_. It is just a cold and impersonal slab of stone stuck self-righteously out of the ground (and really, John thinks, that might be a better representation of his flatmates personality than anything else) with a name and some dates and sometimes a little stock-message like Beloved Mother/Son/Friend that doesn't really mean anything at all.

So, no. John did not go to the cemetery; he hadn't been back since the funeral anyway. Instead, he went to St. Bart's and stood outside looking up at the rooftop. Stood right were he'd been exactly three years ago. Thirty-six months. One hundred and forty-four weeks. One thousand and ninety-five days. However you wanted to say it, it was still the same. It was still three very empty years without Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John had decided right at the start that there was no way he was going to be able to avoid St. Bart's forever so he might as well make his piece with the spot. He'd come out and walk around the street in front and around it for as long as he could and then he'd go back on his way. About a year after Sherlock's suicide, John had come to terms with the spot. His therapist told him that that was good; that it meant he was getting better. He didn't believe that; even though he could go to the hospital again, he still felt the ache that Sherlock had left behind.

The flat still smelt of him for months after his death, his fingerprints were still visible on the windowpanes. His violin sat in an open case on the coffee table, and his dressing gown was draped over his armchair. It took three weeks before John dealt with either of those objects. At first he wanted to break the violin, burn it, because it reminded him of late nights and take away and waking up from another nightmare to hear the soothing melodies that played him back to sleep. It reminded him that Sherlock was gone and he'd never here the violin being played at God-awful hours of the day.

In the end, the packed it up and hid it in a corner of the flat, unwilling to enter Sherlock's room to return it. No one had entered Sherlock's room since his death and he didn't want to be the first. It was just the same as it had been when he'd died.

It was a year and half after Sherlock's death, when all traces of the eccentric, unique, mad, impossible man had been erased from 221B Baker Street that John had decided to move out. Mrs. Hudson hadn't cried when he'd told her, but she had once he had all his things packed away and was halfway out the door. John had held her silently as she cried, and he didn't know whether she was upset only because he was leaving or if she was upset because now all traces of the consulting detective were now truly leaving Baker Street.

* * *

After everything, John was a different man. Before, he was friendly, open, and cheerful. Always up for a pint down at the pub with the mates. More and more he wanted to stay home alone, couldn't bear others company and their sympathetic smiles. He was regressing, not progressing, and he could tell that everyone was worried. After a month of living on his own, he stopped counting how many times a day he caught people giving him sad looks and how many times they told him that they were 'worried about him'.

Then people just stopped asking if he wanted to join them on outings, just assumed he would refuse. They were right, but it still hurt. And that was when John realized that he needed to get past this. He needed to get better.

But how do you get over someone as magnificent as Sherlock Holmes? The only answer he could come up with was 'you don't', but he could damn well try.

* * *

As the days wore on he tried to figure out what the great consulting detective had been to him, since he felt that that would help. They were flatmates and colleagues, obviously, and best friends, definitely. They weren't lovers like everyone had thought; it had never been like that. But even John had to admit that they had been a bit more than friends. It wasn't romantic or sexual or anything, really – sure, John could acknowledge that Sherlock was a handsome man, and they were very close, but could he put that down as something more than the fact that they lived together so _of course_ they were close?

He never figured it out.

* * *

Three years after his friends death, John returned to his dark flat form outside Bart's. He flipped the lights on and made his way to the kitchen where he turned on the kettle and took out two mugs for tea before reminding himself that there was no one else there to drink it with him. John sighed loudly to fill the emptiness of the small kitchen as he returned the second mug to the cabinet.

That was when a familiar voice spoke. A deep baritone he'd never thought he'd heard again. A voice that had been broken and scared over a phone the last time he'd heard it. "I wouldn't do that just yet."

* * *

Later on, John would say that he didn't remember what he did next. He would be told by Sherlock himself that he'd dropped the mug and stood there in shock with his mouth agape for a good twenty seconds before letting his cane fall over and lunging towards the taller man and punching him in the face.

What he remembered was Sherlock's voice and all of a sudden the man himself was double over, holding a hand to his face, and John was cleaning up a broken mug. He fetched some ice for Sherlock and finished making tea – two cups this time, and for once he actually had a use for the second mug.

* * *

They spent the first hour sitting in John's flat just staring at each other, watching how the other moved and acted after all these years.

Sherlock was thinner, if that was even possible. He was wearing one of his signature suits, but it hung off of him a bit and he seemed a bit awkward, like a gawky teenager; all angles. His cheekbones were even more prominent than before and his cheeks where a bit sunken in, giving him a bit of a malnourished look. John had to fight his instinct to force-feed him something. As it was, he tried (and actually succeeded, much to his surprise) to feed Sherlock a biscuit with his tea.

After they'd catalogued each other's changes, they got to talking. They stayed up all night just talking. Sherlock explained everything – why he'd done it, _how_ he'd done it, and what he'd been doing since – and John just sat there in awe. It was almost as if things where back to normal.

Almost.

* * *

John moved back into Baker Street by the time the week was out. Mrs. Hudson cried, this time with joy, when she saw her boys standing there on the porch. She accepted Sherlock's return without explanation and told them that she hadn't been able to rent out the flat to anyone else, claiming that no one had wanted it for the chemical stains on the ceiling but they all knew that that was a lie.

Things didn't go back to normal right away. No one had really expected them to. Sherlock's return was much quieter in the media than his suicide had been, so that was merciful at least. John had a suspicion that a certain 'minor' government official had a hand in that, but never said anything.

They became a lot more... _touchy _than they had been before. Casual touches, mostly made by John to reassure himself that _yes_ he was alive and _yes _he was back – touching a hand when passing something like a mug or a pencil, a shoulder when he passed on his way around the flat. They didn't talk about it and they hardly did it outside of the flat. They both just took it at face value and accepted it as a sign of life.

* * *

A month after they'd returned to 221B, they took a case from Lestrade. Or, more accurately, Lestrade agreed to give them a case. Things were difficult at Scotland Yard, especially now that the one and only Sherlock Holmes had returned. Everyone at the Yard had nearly lost their jobs when it was revealed that their consultant had possibly been a fraud, and there were some who were still bitter about the trouble he'd put them through.

He solved the case by supper so they went to Angelo's for a celebratory dinner. When they finally returned to the flat, laughing and just a little bit drunk, they both fell asleep on the sofa watching crap telly. John woke up first, only three hours later, with his head resting on the detective's shoulder. The other man was still sound asleep and had an arm wrapped around John, effectively pinning the doctor to his side.

He gently untangled himself without waking the younger man and resolved not to mention it.

* * *

Three months after that incident things where starting to truly return to normal. Their routines clicked back into place and everything was very, very _normal._

And John hated it.

He noticed Sherlock being careful around him, even now. Noticed that the man was hesitant around him in what he said and did. He no longer stole John's gun to shoot the wall and he no longer did volatile experiments in the kitchen. John had yet to find a body part in a kitchen appliance or hear the violin being played at three in the morning.

It was only a matter of time, really before he snapped.

"What is it?" he yelled suddenly, walking into the living room to find Sherlock sitting innocently on the sofa with a book.

Sherlock looked confused. "I'm reading," he answered slowly.

The doctor scoffed. "You know that's not what I mean."

"I can assure you that I do not."

With a deep breath to settle himself, John said, "Why are you treating me like I'm a child? You know that I'm not _fragile_ so why are you treating me that way?"

"I'm not treating you that way, John."

"Yes, you are. Maybe you honestly don't notice, but you are." John doubted that, though; the great Sherlock Holmes, not noticing how he was treating someone? Unthinkable.

He stormed out of the flat before he got a response.

* * *

It was three AM when he finally returned from the pub, piss drunk and stumbling. Sherlock heard him banging up the stairs with muffled curses from the sofa, which he'd hardly left since John had gone.

"What're you doin' up?" John slurred

Sherlock waited a moment, weighing his words, before answering. "I was waiting for you.

"Why?"

"To apologize."

John smiled, but it wasn't a particularly happy smile. "The Sherlock Holmes I know doesn't apologize for anything, even when he really should."

"Well he does now," the man in question stated simply. "John, I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry that I left you and I'm sorry for how I'm treating you now. I just hope that you can forgive me, but I understand if you can't."

The ex-soldier flopped down on the couch next to the recently returned consulting detective in an undignified manner. He patted the thinner man's arm a couple times before saying, in a very passive and calm, though slightly slurred, voice, "Oh course I forgive you. I always fucking forgive you."

"Look, John, I know you're upset, but I'm –"

"Sorry, I get it, I know," John interrupted, suddenly sounding quite sober, leading Sherlock to believe that it may have been an act to get him to apologize. "And I forgive you; I really do. I'm just really fucking tired of this, alright?"

Sherlock watched his friend for a minute while John just sat there with his hand on the other mans arm, looking very determinedly forward. "There's something else going on here, isn't there?" When John didn't reply, he continued in a more soothing tone. "What's wrong?"

John just shook his head mutely.

"Something's obviously bothering you. Just tell me what it is and then we can forget this."

That was when it hit him. _Sherlock didn't care_. Sure, he cared for John more than he cared for other people – if he were anyone else, Sherlock wouldn't even _try_ to get them to talk to him – but in the grand scheme of things, he just didn't care. And so, with that thought, he decided to be completely honest. "I loved you."

Only silence from beside him as he continued to stare straight ahead, but he couldn't tell what _kind _of silence. Shocked? Scared? Angry?

"What do you mean?" Sherlock was speaking slowly, as if confused. But Sherlock Holmes was never confused.

"Before," said John in an attempt to clarify. "After you... After you died, I thought about it a lot. Not much else to do, really, when you've been abandoned." At that he gave a humourless laugh and then continued. "I realized that I loved you, and you know what? I was okay with that. Because by the time I realized it I also thought that you were dead and in the ground, so it didn't really matter, did it?" He paused for a moment and seemed to collect himself. "But then you came back and things got all... fuzzy again."

Sherlock seemed a bit uncomfortable. Of course he did, John reasoned; he'd long ago said that this 'wasn't his area'. And John understood that, accepted it. He really did. Didn't mean it made him particularly happy, but he got it. "And how do you feel now?" the self-proclaimed sociopath asked quietly.

"I just told you, didn't I?" his tone could have been taken as slightly angry, when really it was just _tired. _"I don't really want to repeat myself."

A pale hand was waved dismissively. "Yes, it's 'all fuzzy'. But that's not very concrete."

"And why do you need a concrete answer, exactly?" John demanded. "I refuse to be one of your experiments."

The genius wanted to say something about how he'd never do something like that, but considering he'd done it before, it didn't really hold any weight. "I just... I need to know."

"Will my answer, whichever way it may fall, make you want to leave again?" the no-longer-drunk man asked, sounding slightly insecure and oddly like a child.

"I promise that, no matter what, I will not leave again under my own volition."

After a moment of deliberation, John decided that that was a good enough answer. "I still love you. But it's not something I can't get over; I was on my way to it when you decided to inform me that you were alive."

Sherlock nodded to himself. Once. Twice. And then he grabbed John's face in his hands and kissed him.

It had all been very sudden, and so John just sat there for a second, unresponsive to the kiss, before regaining his composure. He placed both hands on the thin man's chest and gave him small push. Sherlock backed up and gave him a questioning look.

They just sat there _looking_ at each other for a minute before John asked, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Kissing you. I thought that it was obvious."

"Yeah I know what that was, but I don't need your _pity _or _sympathy_. I got enough of that from others while you were dead." John was _angry_. Irrationally so, but he was. How dare this impossible man come back from the dead and just kiss him with no explanation? Granted, those events didn't actually happen in such a quick succession, but they seemed close enough together to John.

"Why are you angry? I thought you'd be okay with that." Sherlock seemed genuinely confused and John almost felt bad for being mad. Almost, but not quite.

"Of course I'm angry! I don't want you to kiss me because you feel it's the right thing to do or because you think that it would end our conversation."

"Do you honestly think I'd do something I didn't want to?"

He did have a point there, John had to admit. "So, what? You're saying you actually want to do this?"

Sherlock just gave him a little smile. Small yet genuine.

* * *

They never got back to the way they were before the infamous fall; they'd all changed so much, had grown and lost so much, that it really was impossible to revert to their old ways. But some days they were so damn close it was worth trying.


End file.
